


devil on my heart, grace on my lips

by onanotherworld



Series: dancing with the devil [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, I know, M/M, Violence, and more - Freeform, it's also, oh foggy matt should listen to you more, oh no, puns, some blood but not a lot, surprising when matt is involved, you think it's gonna be all fluff though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 02:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5357936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy wonders if he was the blind one in this relationship. </p><p>*</p><p>Alternatively: hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.</p>
            </blockquote>





	devil on my heart, grace on my lips

**Author's Note:**

> alternatively titled: Foggy Is So Damn Nice, Why Does He Get Hurt?

“You’re blind,” says Foggy in surprise, scratching his beard. He knows it looks dashing, whatever his mom says. 

“Yes,” says his new roomie, “Is that going to be a problem?” The guy says it in a perfectly polite tone, but with an undercurrent that smacks of _if it is, I’ll beat your ass with my stick, eyes be damned,_ which has Foggy suppressing a grin, even though he knows the guy can’t see it. 

“No, no, of course not!” He hurries to cover over the misstep, “I’m Foggy Nelson, soon to be lawyer at law in a big fancy firm with glass and steel,” he puffs his chest, beaming.

The guy’s polite smirk blossoms into a real smile, skin crinkling under the line of his glasses, and he laughs warmly. “I’m Matt Murdock, soon to be defense lawyer.” The guy – Matt – feels around for his suitcase handle and tugs it closer to the bed. 

Foggy scrutinises him. It’s not often you get to look at someone interrupted for a long stretch without being branded a creeper. Not that Foggy knows that from himself, of course. Definitely from a friend.

The guy – Matt – is stubbly in a way that Foggy aspires to, his glasses are slightly crooked, and his left ear is slightly higher than his right one. Chicks dig those hot mess types, though. And, he’s something Foggy finds it impossible to ignore. He’s built. Like, seriously built. What the hell does this guy do? Lift weights all day, everyday? Jeez, Foggy jogged for six months and couldn’t even build an eighth of that muscle mass. Life is so unfair. 

He must’ve sighed, either in appreciation or envy. Hell, Foggy doesn’t know, but he must’ve made _some_ sort of noise, because Matt turns to him questioningly. 

“Ah,” Foggy says eloquently, and says the first thing that comes into his head. “How bad of a tan line must you have under those glasses, dude?” And immediately kicks himself. Way to go, ask a hot blind guy what sort of tan line he has. _As if he could see._ God, he’s such an idiot. Scratch that, he’s a full-on douchebag.

But, before Foggy could sink into his bed from embarrassment, possibly throwing his laptop out of the window before his mother could see his porn stash post mortem, Matt interrupts by throwing his head back and guffawing, clutching at his stomach, leaving Foggy blinking in surprise, before starting to laugh as well.

As they calmed down, Foggy says sheepishly, tears of laughter still in his eyes, “I’m sorry, man, that was so insensitive, I’m an idiot.” 

“No worries,” Matt shrugs off the comment easily, “although, I can’t actually tell, so maybe you should check for me.” Amusement undercuts his tone. 

Matt’s still grinning his blinding – ha, pun, Foggy is the best at those – grin, so Foggy stammers, “S-sure, dude, if that’s okay.” 

Matt flicks his glasses up, leaning forward so Foggy can have a better look, and – whoa. Foggy was maybe expecting some white eyes, blinded by cataracts, maybe no eyes at all, but he certainly wasn’t expecting delightfully chocolate brown irises ringed with green. Foggy’s breath leaves him in a whoosh of air. 

And Matt doesn’t even have a tan line, damn him all to hell. 

“How’s the line?” Matt asks, flipping his glasses back down, and settles back, his weight on his hands.

“Fine,” Foggy squeaks, hastily dragging himself backwards, blushing hotly. “No line at all.”

**

In hindsight, that should’ve been Foggy’s first clue.

**

“What do you eat, Matt? Bricks? Rocks? Law textbooks?” Foggy groans as Matt props himself up on Foggy’s shoulders.

Matt leans conspiratorially down to Foggy’s ear, alcohol-laced breath going straight up his nose, “Ah, you’ve discovered my secret, Foggy Nelson, I am simply a being composed of the writings in law books, which is why I always do better than you on tests.” He finishes smugly, the bastard. 

Foggy shoves weakly at Matt. “I knew it,” he shouts hoarsely, and he’s suddenly feeling all those screwdrivers he drank to try and impress – who was it? – ah, yes, that girl in his Punjabi class, Marcy. “I knew you had some superhuman powers, Matt Murdock, who could ever best the great Foggy Nelson in quizzes if not controlled by outside, malign influences?” He doesn’t wait for Matt to reply, “No-one, that’s who!” He crows, slinging one arm around Matt’s shoulders. 

“I can’t wait to tell everyone else,” says Foggy contentedly, as they stumble their way to their room.

Matt barks a laugh and sways harder onto Foggy, causing them to swing left suddenly. Foggy trips and Matt struggles to remain balanced, both of them laughing like loons. Those who are left walking round campus on a rainy autumnal night give them a wide berth.

“Hey, look, buddy!” Foggy says far too loudly into Matt’s ear. 

“I can’t look, Foggy,” Matt says with patient amusement. Foggy frowns for a second, wobbling.

“Look with your face, Matt, and those things on the side of your head.”

“I think those are called ears, Foggy,” Matt says thoughtfully, propping himself up on the small wall that edges the footpath. Foggy just flops down horizontally on the wall, giggling hysterically.

“I know what _ears_ are, Batman,” Foggy says, snickering drunkenly. “But my point is,” he gulps a breath through his laughter, “Ever’body is acting all scared of a drunk blind guy and his best friend.” Foggy snorts unattractively, because who would be scared of Matt? Matt’s a teddy bear, a little cuddly duckling with the perchance of beating the crap out of gym punching bags when he’s pissed off. 

While he’s giggling, he doesn’t see the smile slowly slip off Matt’s face, replaced with an introspective expression. If Foggy could see it, he’d say that his eyes were narrowing and crinkling underneath his glasses, and his head lifts, as if he could see the few people skating around them. 

Foggy recovers, and stares at the moon, and the brightest star in the sky. Abruptly, he asks, “Matt, do you remember the stars?”

Matt glances back towards the sound of his voice. His words are nearly swallowed up in the wind. “I do,” he replies, softly, and almost sadly. 

Pushing himself to his elbows, Foggy looks at Matt’s face. He is looking to the sky with a wistful expression. Damn, damn, damn, he has to fix this, he’s made Matt sad, he never wants to make Matt sad because getting Matt out of his sad is like trying to tempt a puppy across a field of thistles with broccoli. 

To bring Matt’s mind to the present, Foggy says, “How do you feel the world, now?” 

Matt stares unerringly back at Foggy’s face. “I feel it like fire.” So intense is the look that Foggy can feel burning him behind his glasses, that he catches his breath and shivers. 

“At least fire is warmer than my toes right now, old buddy, old pal,” Foggy smiles, jovial, trying to feel as drunk as he did a few minutes ago. “Let’s go back to our room.” He staggers up, and links his arm through one of Matt’s, pulling him off the wall, back in the direction of their room.

He misses the way Matt has an almost imperceptible smile on his face, and that he breathes deeper, a man who has got weight off his chest.

**

When Foggy wakes the next morning with a blinding headache, and Matt shuffling quietly around the room, he groans, “How come you never have a hangover, you bastard, God, it’s so unfair, it’s like you’re a superhero or something.” 

Matt’s shoulders tense, and then relax in the most curious way, flexing underneath his old-man sweater. Foggy goes dry-mouthed, and chalks it up to surprise at him waking so suddenly.

**

A hint: he should have looked more closely. 

**

When Matt turns up for the second day in a row with another butterfly stitch on his nose, Foggy hisses through his teeth. “Damn, Matt, you really need to get to know your apartment better.”

Matt grunts, tapping his stick through the tiny office. Foggy trails after him. “No, seriously, Matty, one day I’m going to walk in to this place and shriek like a little girl because I’m gonna think it’s an alien staring up at me because you’re going to be so black and blue.” 

Matt smirks in that way of his. “I think you’re over exaggerating a little, Foggy.” He sits at his desk, feeling around for his papers.

Foggy perches on the edge of the desk and clucks his tongue. “Nuh-uh, buddy, it’s gonna happen and it’s gonna scare the hell out of Karen to see such a manly man brought to shrieking,”

Matt glances up at him from over his glasses. “A manly man?” He says wryly, a teasing glimmer in his eyes, “Are you sure?” Foggy pauses for a split second, heart speeding, still caught off-guard, even after all their years of friendship, that blind eyes can be so expressive.

He shakes his head minutely, and plasters a broad grin on his face. He knows Matt can’t see it, but he likes to think that he appreciates it anyway, and clutches at his chest dramatically. “Oh,” he raises his voice slightly, “you wound me!” 

Matt smiles, pushing his glasses up his nose. He pats Foggy’s shoulder consolingly, “You’ll survive,” 

Foggy huffs good-naturedly, standing. “I might not, you know! People have died from a broken heart before.”

Something quietly shatters behind Matt’s smile, and Foggy curses himself. “I know,” Matt says quietly. 

Foggy’s still rooting around for something to say when Karen comes in. Matt’s mask pushes itself back up, with a thousand kilo-watt smile. 

“Good morning!” Karen calls through the open door, and Foggy can hear the thump of her bag on the floor next to her desk. She appears in the doorway. “How’s my two best boys?” She asks, her grin glittering. 

Foggy beams at her, “The best, as always, my lovely lady.” She looks at Matt, and her face falls to one of concern. She looks to Foggy, and he shakes his head at her. _It’s fine,_ he mouths, and she nods. 

“Good morning,” Matt says, his smile catching and holding her. Foggy can’t help the slight pulse of jealousy. He shoves it aside. 

“Well,” he claps his hands together, “we’ve got a busy day ahead, folks! Cops to bribe, law firms to intimidate, cats to rescue.” 

“Is that your subtle way of telling me to get to work, Foggy?” Karen asks, mock-sternly, resting one hip against the doorframe.

“Of course not!” He banters, “I’m just saying that kittens should come first.”

“Uh-huh.” She nods, unconvinced. “Kittens come first,” she repeats dubiously, but hefts herself off the doorframe and goes to sit at her desk with the parting shot of “I want a white-chocolate chip muffin for lunch, then!” 

Foggy calls back, a silly grin on his face, “Your wish is my command!” 

He turns back to Matt, and sees a warm smile. The something that shattered is fixing itself, Foggy thinks. He never wants Matt to break again. He puts one hand on Matt’s shoulder and rests it there, a show of silent support. The smile dips into softer territory. 

“Let’s get to work, as you so elegantly put it. Kittens come first.” Matt jokes, running his hands across the braille sheets. 

“Captain, my captain!” Foggy salutes, and goes to sit down at his own desk. He may be imagining it, but he swears Matt’s amused look grows when he raises his arm. He thinks that it’s just a trick of the light, because when he glances back, Matt’s head is bent over his work, butterfly stitches and bruising following the line of his nose. 

As if he can feel his staring, Matt’s gaze turns up, for a split second, and Foggy blushes, thanking his lucky stars that Matt cannot see. 

**

Looking back, Foggy wonders if he was the blind one in this relationship. 

**

It’s only when Foggy finds Matt, bleeding and unconscious on the floor in the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen costume that it begins to connect in his mind. He’d just brought over some pizza to spend a night hanging in Matt’s place.

But the best laid plans, as they say. 

He slaps Matt’s bruised cheeks, wincing at the harsh sound, shouting “Matt! Matt!” As loud as he can, that he begins to connect the dots. 

The looking. The eyes. The world of fire. 

He stops for a second, shivering. He can’t think about it now, and he has to get Matt to his sofa. He hauls him, so his torso is off the floor. 

He puffs, and says weakly, “What do you eat, Matty? Law textbooks?” That night seems a lifetime away. Foggy’s mouth drags down at the corners, and he wipes at his face. How did he not notice, how did he not even guess?

Matt is his best friend, his partner in crime, his all. How? It just sticks in his mind, like the first tape that Foggy had ever put in the crappy tape player that Matt had got him for one Christmas. It’d been so embarrassed about it, but Foggy couldn’t have cared less with the cute little foot-shuffle that Matt had done when he had apologised. Bitterness wars with sweetness as he sets Matt down on the couch. 

“How could you do this to me, Matty?” He whispers into the still room. Matt’s breathing doesn’t change, the soft huff-huff that Foggy swears he could recognise anywhere. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? The bombs? How could you?” It makes him want to cry, stomp, scream, shake Matt until the truth that he already knows is confirmed, falling from his lips like a prayer. 

But there is no time for that. Matt is still bleeding. Foggy ferrets around in Matt’s kitchen area, finding a fully stocked, if battered, first aid kit. He stares at it in his hands. How long has this been going on? Since the butterfly stitches, since the black-and-blue alien?

He wets a cloth on autopilot, soaking it in soap and walks back to Matt. He brushes the cloth over his cheeks, pushing aside the mask. His eyes are closed. Foggy’s heart begins to break. 

He looks closely along his nose, wondering if the spots of brown are freckles, or dried blood. Foggy swipes at them with a cloth, anyhow. He runs his hands through Matt’s hair, checking for cuts. 

There is a knock on the door. Foggy snaps his head towards the sound. 

“Matt!” A woman’s voice calls, “It’s Claire, open up!” Foggy doesn’t know what to do, and he dithers, pacing towards the door, then backing up towards the living area. 

“I’m coming in there! Don’t think I won’t,” the woman, Claire, warns. 

Foggy decides to cut his losses. He opens the door. A pretty, high-cheek boned woman stands there, her lips opening in surprise. She says guardedly, “You’re not Matt.” 

“I’m Foggy.” He says, with a loose approximation of his usual beaming grin. 

“Oh, I’ve heard about you.” 

Foggy snaps. It’s been a long day, a long evening, and going to be a longer night. He’s hurt, lost, and feeling lonelier than he did in second-grade and had no friends because nobody liked the irrepressible bouncy boy. 

“I haven’t heard of you,” he glares at her, “How do you know Matt?” 

She retains her expression of surprise, and stammers, “Well – I – we got to know each other in a tricky situation.” Her eyes dart, looking for escape. Foggy realises she is protecting Matt’s secret. 

He rubs a hand through his hair. “I know.” He says wearily. “He’s hurt.” The acceptance on her face very nearly breaks him. 

“Let me through, I’m a nurse, I’ll take care of him.” He stands aside, and she steps past, clearly familiar with the layout of the flat, trying to contain the anger that _he_ is the one whose always looked after Matt, _he_ is the one whose bandaged his knuckles and wiped his forehead after running into walls. How could she take over his role like that? It’s not fair. 

He swallows the childish thoughts. Life’s not fair – he learnt that when Matt walked into his life, with his messy hair and his gentle smile. He learnt that when Matt persuaded him with his gentle words to leave a high paying job, to live in a tiny, damp flat, who stepped so close to him that he could feel his breath. No, none of this is fair. 

He wanders, lost, back to Matt and Claire. She bends over him, delicately stitching his cuts, wiping antiseptic onto the slashes on his chest. A butterfly stitch on his nose. A lump rises in Foggy’s throat. 

He wonders how much he ever really knew about Matt. He stands there in silence, a haze in his mind, until Claire is done. 

“I’d usually stay the night, to make sure he keeps breathing.” There is a question in her voice, and she peeks up from under her eyelashes at him.

“I’ll stay,” he says roughly. She nods, professional once again, and, in a flurry of packing up, she leaves. 

Foggy is alone with his unconscious best friend. His best friend, who lied to him, who treated him like he was stupid, who broke his heart, who he loves. 

“It’s not fair.” The words shiver in the silent room, the billboard dazzling him in blue light. 

He’s not sure how long he sits there, watching the rhythm of Matt’s breathing. It is nearly dawn when Matt stirs. Groans, wakes. 

“Matt.” Foggy says, and his voice breaks on the word. Matt freezes, hands going to where his mask would be. “I know,” Foggy is thick with tears, his sight blurring. 

“Goddamn you, Matthew Murdock.” Foggy whispers, and pretends like there isn’t an _I love you_ beneath the words. He needs his distance, now, of all times. 

And Matthew Murdock, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, begins to cry. 

**

Foggy learns, in hindsight, that the devil is in the details.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! my tumblr is launched-a-thousand-ships


End file.
